


he is far gone, far gone

by delhuillier



Series: Crucible [2]
Category: Fire Emblem Heroes
Genre: F/F, Morph!Kiran, Other, genderless Kiran, some of my other pairings are referenced obliquely at one point
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-04-22
Updated: 2018-04-22
Packaged: 2019-04-26 05:25:01
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,947
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14395236
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/delhuillier/pseuds/delhuillier
Summary: Alfonse has always struggled to define his relationship with Kiran.





	he is far gone, far gone

It is a time of war, yes, and tomorrow the Order of Heroes marches for the Tempest in order to quell its fury, but there is still to be a festival. The long-dead saint honoured by it is now only remembered by name, and the true purpose of the celebration has been lost: now it is little more than an excuse to dine on sweets and cakes, and exchange gifts. A shallow bit of frippery and fun. 

“This is a bad idea.”

Sharena pauses in the middle of combing his hair, and lets her hands rest lightly there on his head. The affection in the gesture reminds Alfonse of how long it has been since they’ve seen their parents, who had long removed themselves to the summer palace, far away from the front lines. It affects him rather more than he would’ve liked.

“It’ll be good for people,” she tells him, as she has the handful of times he’s expressed similar sentiments before. “You’re smarter than I am, Alfonse, so I know you see that.”

“How will our people feel to see us indulging in this pageantry when an army from across the sea is poking at our borders and chaos itself threatens this world and another?” Alfonse sighs. “I know you and Commander Anna mean well, but this is different. After what Surtr did to that village…this war is not something the people can ignore.”

Sharena begins to move the comb through his hair again, taming the cowlicks Alfonse always has after a night’s sleep with a deftness acquired over years of practise. Helping one another prepare to face the day has long become a way to have little tête-à-têtes, where they can smooth out their differences or bandage wounds sharp words had inflicted the day before, or even just chat. 

“I think you’ll find,” Sharena says after a moment, as she takes up one of the golden clasps Alfonse always wears to keep his hair in some measure of order, “that not many people are as much of a downer as you are.” She pinches one of his cheeks like an overbearing relative. “Ever since we celebrated the anniversary of Kiran’s appearance, you’ve been so broody.”

“That’s true enough,” Alfonse admits, thinking that he’s had every reason to be. “I just think that, to see us waste gold and time on this festival—the people won’t like it. They’ll think we don’t care. Mother and Father already abandoned them months ago, and they know it. They’re unhappy, Sharena.”

“Seeing their prince with such a dour attitude at the festival is what’s going to make people unhappy,” Sharena replies. “Morale, you know?”

There are a number of things Alfonse wants to say—that that’s such a romantic, naïve point of view, that the people’s loyalty to their sovereigns can only be tested so much—but he chooses to keep them to himself. Because maybe, just maybe, Sharena’s right, and he needs to keep that in mind.

They trade places once Sharena is finished with his hair. Sharena props her chin on a hand and watches him in the mirror as he starts to work on the tangles in her hair with another comb (his right hand’s coöperating today, so far, despite his heavy use of Fólkvangr recently), readying it for the brush. He can see it, a question hovering behind her green eyes, like the early-morning sun rolling across a meadow.

Eventually, she catches his eye in the vanity mirror, and gives voice to her curiosity. There’s a strange little smile on her face that he can’t quite read.

“So, you going to tell me what’s wrong?”

Alfonse doesn’t answer immediately. Instead he averts his gaze, stares hard at the brush in his hand, the tiny hairline crack in the tortoiseshell backing. What would he tell her? That Kiran’s a soulless being given life through a particularly grotesque form of necromancy? That because of that, Kiran’s probably going to die in year or two’s time? That he’s terrified he’s not going to be able to stop Surtr, even with the help of Nifl’s royal family?

None of that seems like an acceptable choice. So he says, guilt squirming in his gut like a cluster of worms, “I…don’t think I can yet.” He wants to give her something, but at the same time, he wants nothing less than to burden her.

Sharena looks distinctly unimpressed, but she still gives him a smile, if one that’s not quite as wide or cheerful as her normal ones and brittle at the edges. “Well, whatever,” she says. She gives him a knowing look. “Maybe it’s just that you’re worried Kiran’s not going to get you a gift.”

“I’ve no idea where you’re getting these ideas from,” Alfonse says, tugging the brush with a bit more force than usual through a particularly troublesome knot, drawing an annoyed “Jeez, Alfonse” from Sharena. “We’re hardly close.”

“Oh, really?” Sharena asks. “Why’ve they been keeping you away from the front lines lately, then, hmm? By their side?”

“I really couldn’t tell you.”

“If you say so.”

Alfonse doesn’t bother replying to that, and thankfully, Sharena doesn’t push him on it. Truly, he has no idea what Kiran feels for him, if anything, thanks to their complete lack of affect and terse way of speaking. It’s painful sometimes. Agonising, even. Alfonse has given them so much and he can’t even be honoured with a smile or word of thanks.

A gentle knock on the door startles Alfonse from his thoughts. It turns out to be Fjorm, already dressed for the festival. She’d chosen a lovely white dress with long, full sleeves, with geometric Askrian patterns picked out on the skirt and train in robin’s egg blue and the palest of golds; and around her shoulders she’d draped a white cloak, lined with fur, to ward off the chill brought by the early months of the year.

“Am I to be escorted today by both the prince and princess of Askr?” Fjorm asks, her gentle smile touching her lips. “An honour.”

“Oh, no, no,” replies Alfonse. He’s careful not to stare at her burn scars: the jagged arc of keloid swooping across her forehead, partially hidden by her hair. The tight patches of skin on her neck that mimic all too well the shape of a gauntlet. “I won’t be intruding.”

He’s not quite sure yet how to act around this princess of Nifl. Much of the time she is kind, acting with measured grace and self-possession; but other times, Alfonse has seen the desire for vengeance she carries within her, burning like an inexhaustible flame. A face set and cold like marble, a sacred spear wielded with murderous intent.

“That’s right, you won’t be,” Sharena says, “because neither of us mind if you come. We already talked about this yesterday.”

Fjorm laughs softly. “You will join us for the festival today, won’t you, Prince Alfonse? I know your sister well, but you are still a mystery to me. We must fix that.”

Alfonse looks from Sharena to Fjorm and then allows himself a rueful smile. “Well, it seems I have no other choice. I’ll be happy to.”

When Alfonse finishes with Sharena’s hair, Sharena beckons for Fjorm to come sit at the vanity. Alfonse gives them room, watching as Fjorm settles in the chair, all straight-backed royal elegance. He doesn’t understand what’s going on until he sees Sharena take out a case of cosmetics and a brush, and sees Fjorm, her face tranquil like a frozen pond, gather locks of hair into one hand to hold them up and away from the scar on her forehead.

The potion Sharena chose, once applied, imitates almost perfectly the colour of the surrounding unblemished skin. With every sweep of the brush, more of the scar is concealed.

Alfonse’s gut twists; he feels like a trespasser, witnessing something he shouldn’t be. He tugs at the collar of his dress uniform, and says, with some difficulty, “I should go.”

Fjorm gives him a kind smile. She tells him: “It’s all right, Prince Alfonse. Stay.”

So he does, because he can’t do otherwise. To reject her after this, this invitation to count himself amongst the few who have seen her at perhaps her most vulnerable, would be terribly cruel.

“How does it look?” Sharena asks Fjorm, after she’s finished the work. “Good? Bad? Just okay?”

Fjorm studies her face in the mirror, turning it one way, then the other. Then she presses Sharena’s hand and says quietly, “It looks perfect, dearheart.”

Quick as a wink, Sharena swoops down and presses a kiss to Fjorm’s cheek. His sister’s blushing, and blushes deeper as her eyes flicker up to meet Alfonse’s. “Well then!” Sharena says. “Let’s go! The people await!”

=

As it turns out, Sharena read the mood of the people far better than Alfonse had. They’re overjoyed to see their prince and princess at the festival, and Alfonse finds himself caught up in the celebratory atmosphere; he exchanges well-wishes with adults, gets on his haunches to trade smiles and talk with younger children. If anything, he knows how to play the role of the prince well.

Everyone at the festival seems to have found themselves a partner: Nobles and peasants alike stroll from tent to tent hand in hand or arm in arm, and many of the Heroes follow their example. There’s Corrin and Berkut by the soothsayer’s stand, the dragon prince listening with rapt attention to the old woman’s words; here’s little Fae, watched over by Mae and Boey; there’s Alm and Celica sampling chocolate, Lukas and Innes carrying flutes of golden champagne, and the three Lycian lords, Hector, Lyn, and Eliwood.

There’s happiness in the air, despite the shadow of an all-out war looming on the horizon. Sharena’s right—not all are as pessimistic as he.

And to their credit, Sharena and Fjorm never make him feel excluded. There’s always a hand extended to him, to invite him to join into a game or to beckon him over to look at some impossible invention by a pâtissier or confectioner. Fjorm ushers him down a path into a ten-minute conversation about some legend from history; Sharena entertains Fjorm and embarrasses Alfonse with skilfully-told stories from their childhood. Kiran and their frustrating opaqueness are far from Alfonse’s mind during that afternoon.

At the end of the day, Sharena drags Alfonse and Fjorm to a tent where passers-by are allowed to experiment baking their own festival cakes. He and Fjorm exchange a _look_ , and then silly little smiles once they realise what they did. This burgeoning friendship is new territory for the both of them, but he has a feeling they’ll make it work—at best because they like one another well enough, at worst just to keep Sharena happy.

Soon, the sun is setting and the festival grounds are emptying faster than Alfonse would’ve thought possible. He, cradling his cakes (vanilla, with rich buttercream icing—he’d done the best out of the three of them, inviting a sly joke from Sharena about how Alfonse would be a good housewife one day) under one arm, walks with Sharena and Fjorm back towards the castle.

He leaves the two of them at the front doors with a sincere word of thanks, and enters the castle alone. At first he intends to go back to his rooms to change into something more comfortable and spend the rest of the evening reading by candlelight, but then he remembers his cakes. He’s never been one for sweets, and Sharena and Fjorm no doubt had already given each other their own.

Alfonse sighs. He knows exactly one person to whom he could conceivably give the pastries as a gift, without it coming off as a misdirected declaration of affection.

Given that they march to the Tempest tomorrow, Alfonse has a fairly good idea where Kiran is: haunting the library like some sort of pale, inoffensive phantom, poring through histories, accounts of battles and of drawn-out wars, working through strategy problems using a board and some pieces Prince Innes had provided them. Indefatigable. The perfect strategist, but imperfect—incomplete might be a better word, in fact—in so many other ways.

He’s right, of course. Kiran is indeed holed up in a reading room in the back of the library—the one that, oddly enough, overlooks the castle parade grounds where the festival had taken place. Open books fan out in front of them like cards on a dealer’s table, and the strategy board sits off to the side, pieces set out in tiny clusters on its smooth surface.

Alfonse pauses in the doorway, trying to decide what to say; his eyes wander, avoiding Kiran, and fall instead upon the spine of the book cradled in Kiran’s hands, and then widen as he recognises it. He _knows_ that book, has read it before, even, because it’s a treatise on morphs from the World of Blazing.

“Alfonse?” Kiran says.

“Oh,” Alfonse says, taken aback by the fact Kiran was the first to speak. “Kiran. Hello.”

They watch him, waiting for him to explain himself, and in the candlelight, their eyes glitter like the gold coins mourners place on the eyes of corpses so they can buy a place in Helheim. Their face, too, seems different: the candle flame disguises Kiran’s ashen pallor, lending them a soft warmth and colour they normally lack.

“Preparing for the Tempest?” Alfonse asks, coming a little further into the reading room.

“Yes,” Kiran says, and so subtly, so casually, they shut their book and slip it under another, more innocuous one. If the book in their hands hadn’t already been on Alfonse’s mind, he would’ve missed it entirely.

Of course, that fills his mind with altogether too many questions. Why is Kiran reading about morphs? (Had they not even known what they were? But that’s impossible. Isn’t it?) Why should they hide that from him? What are they seeking?

“Is there something you need?”

“Ah, well, yes,” Alfonse says, cursing himself a thousand times for being so cripplingly awkward. “Or, no. I…noticed you weren’t at the festival today, as a matter of fact.”

He expects Kiran to offer up one of their usual one-word answers: “Yes”, I wasn’t. “No”, I didn’t go. That sort of thing. Instead, Kiran says, after a moment, “Don’t like crowds.”

“No? Neither do I, really,” Alfonse says, absurdly grateful that Kiran, for once, has given him _something_. “But as prince, well…”

“You have no choice,” Kiran murmurs. They’re staring at the table now, and their brows have come together in what is unmistakably a frown. The suggestion of one, at least.

It tells Alfonse a lot, those four words. Kiran knows full well what they are now, or at least has finally come to understand what _morph_ implies. And it’s obvious that such an understanding is profoundly different from simply knowing the word to call themselves.

“Yes,” Alfonse says. “But I won’t complain. I’ve understood my duty since I was very young. The people need a leader, be they prince or princess, king or queen.”

Kiran looks up, opens their mouth, and then closes it again. “I…I’m…” they say, and stop. Something very like frustration—a pale imitation of it, really—appears on Kiran’s face—and Alfonse realises he’s watching Kiran try and explain a feeling or sentiment of which, as a consequence of their design, they simply have no concept.

He reaches out and grips Kiran’s arm. “It’s all right,” he says. “Kiran, it’s all right.”

Instantly, Kiran’s face flattens into its normal neutrality, effacing any suggestion of internal conflict. But they don’t pull away.

“I made you these,” Alfonse says hesitantly, holding out the wrapped cakes. “There was a tent at the festival where you could try your hand at baking, you see, and…well, seeing as you weren’t there, I thought…”

Well, properly speaking, he wasn’t thinking at all. But he’s here now and Kiran just seems like the right person to give the cakes to. They’re the Summoner, Askr’s saviour—they deserve something, _anything_ , for their work. To think they’d been sitting here all day, whilst outside their window…

Kiran accepts the packet of cakes from Alfonse with the same precise movements that have become so familiar to him, and carefully unwraps it.

“They might be a little squashed,” Alfonse says. “I’ve not really had much practice. In the kitchen, I mean. So—”

“You made these?” Kiran asks, interrupting Alfonse for the first time, ever. “For…me.”

“Oh,” Alfonse says, then, “Um. Yes, I did.”

Because now that he thinks about it, who else could he have been baking them for? Neither Fjorm nor Sharena, that’s for sure—they have one another. And not Zacharias, either, because he’s…well.

Kiran picks up the cake as though they’re afraid it will crumble into nothing at the slightest touch, like the pages of a book left to rot for centuries do when mishandled, and brings it to their mouth. They take a small bite.

Then they look up, and they _smile_. They really smile. It’s not a good one. In fact, as far as smiles go, it’s pretty unimpressive—barely a shoddy replica of one, already falling apart at the edges.

But that’s the best a soulless being like Kiran can do, Alfonse realises. True emotion will be forever beyond them, so all they have is this: these attempts at sentiment and at feeling that will always fall short of the mark.

Will that be enough for him? He has no idea. 

“Thank you, Alfonse,” Kiran says.

“Yeah,” Alfonse says. “Happy Valentine’s Day, Kiran.”

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading.
> 
> This is another...thing...I originally wrote for a writing prompt thread on r/fireemblemheroes. This is from one of February's prompts, as the content suggests.
> 
> The title is a reference to Hamlet, Act II, scene 2, where Polonius is convinced that Hamlet has gone mad with love. Falling in love with a morph may indeed be a bit on the mad side, don't you think?


End file.
